Crossings
by girl in the glen
Summary: Just another tight spot for the two men from UNCLE. Originally posted for PicFic Tuesday on LJ.


The two UNCLE agents had been beaten, interrogated and finally mistaken for something less than they were. The guards were overthrown and Solo and Kuryakin had emerged from their cells to find the hacienda quiet, seemingly empty.

The Russian had received a dose of something towards the end, and still he had been able to navigate alongside his partner as they stole through corridors and up the staircase to the main floor. The room was mostly empty save for some displays of weapons. Still, no sign of a guard.

"I see two swords."

"Yep, me too."

"You two?" Illya held up two fingers, struggling to keep his eyes uncrossed as he examined them a little too closely.

"What? Two swords, yes I agree. What did they give you anyway?" Napoleon swatted down his partner's hand, irritated at the way he was acting and fully aware that the Russian could not help himself. Solo doubted he could help anyone in his current state of mind.

"How did we get into this predicamentomum anyway?" Illya's eyes were still a little crossed, something that seemed now to worry him as he attempted to look straight ahead.

"Now what's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?" The American half of the team slapped the blond across his left cheek, a move that immediately set the Russian's body on instant reflex. He took a swing at Napoleon, barely missing him as he let his body follow the momentum of his arm's direction. After making a complete circle the drugged agent fell against his partner, completing what must have appeared to be a comic routine to anyone watching.

Napoleon let Illya down gently, sitting him against a wall beneath the two swords that hung there. Figuring he had nothing to lose he reached up and grasped the handle of one, removing it from the brace that held it.

"I see you have found my most prized possessions." The voice sent a chill up Solo's spine. He had hoped to get away without encountering the Chief of this satrapy; his reputation preceded him in all the worst ways.

Napoleon turned around to face Regis Northen, a self-styled tyrant whose idea of ruling the world was eliminating most of its inhabitants. He seemed to be doing all he could to accomplish that, which was the reason for being here. Mr. Waverly had been very specific:

 _"Stop him at all costs. All costs, Mr. Solo. Do you understand?"_

Napoleon had replied in the affirmative, and now here he was with opportunity facing him along with the equal opportunity to die at the hands of this monstrous member of THRUSH.

"Ah, one must guard one's prized possessions. Perhaps putting them on display is not the best method for doing that." The smirk on Napoleon's face was a good attempt at appearing at ease in the face of danger. No one was ever truly at east when confronted with the possibility of dying, and only a smooth performance such as Solo had perfected could accomplish the goal he now had in mind.

"In fact, I would say that your cavalier attitude towards these swords will most likely get you killed. I am an expert, you see, with a sword." Napoleon was looking straight into the eyes of Northen, hoping his bravado would sufficiently dent the older man's intentions.

"He shoots at javelins you know." The uninvited comment from Illya caused the other two men to turn in response to what sounded like nonsense. Illya smiled, his eyes still slightly crossed as he tried to focus on his partner.

"He's a javelin shooter… a square shooter. Da, will shoot off your ass you asshole."

Whether intentional or not, the ramblings of a drugged UNCLE agent seemed to have an effect on Northen's concentration, at which point Napoleon took the first move and lunged towards him. Just as swiftly as he had hoped, the blade found its mark beneath the sternum. Regis Northen gasped as the sword penetrated, falling to his knees as Napoleon withdrew the weapon. It had been so quick, so …

"Is he dead?" Illya's voice was deep, controlled. Napoleon swung around to face his partner, not sure whether to be angry or grateful for the act he seemed to be immersed in.

"Are you or are you not drugged out of your everlovin' Russian mind? Because if you are, well… thank you." He walked to where Illya still sat and reached down to help him up.

"And if I am not? What then, and mind you I am aware of the sword in your hand." Both men smiled at that.

"Okay, obviously not drugged." Illya groaned as he straightened up, an earlier bout of beatings would leave a mark tomorrow.

"Well, I was drugged but not enough to keep me from saving you once again. I doubt you would have taken Northen in a fair fight."

Napoleon didn't mind the chiding, he wasn't certain about the outcome either. At least Illya had gained his senses in time to help out.

"By the way, one does not shoot a javelin; it is thrown, tossed… Not shot." A small nod acknowledged the mistake.

"My apologies, I was thinking of a shot put."

"A shot put? Illya… "

A trickle of giggles, and then hearty guffaws until both men were bent over in spasms of hysterical laughter. The mission was a success, Northen was dead and his satrapy no longer being used to decimate the human race.

 _A merry heart doeth good like a medicine._

It was preferable to seeing a shrink.


End file.
